


Indulgence

by the_ragnarok



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 06:00:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5655022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold tries to ration himself, careful not to overstep the invisible boundaries that John has put in place, but he thinks a night when John lies with a bullet wound in his stomach is enough outside the ordinary to disregard normal routine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indulgence

Harold tries to ration himself, careful not to overstep the invisible boundaries that John has put in place, but he thinks a night when John lies with a bullet wound in his stomach is enough outside the ordinary to disregard normal routine.

Dear God, let such wounds never become ordinary.

John took it in stride, merely grunting as the shot hit him. Accepting it as his due. If Harold isn't careful, he will get very, very angry at John's disregard for himself, and angrier still at those who taught him that disregard by example.

Harold doesn't want to be angry. He has few enough chances to indulge himself that he'd hate for one to go to waste.

John is awake, just barely, eyes mere slits gazing at Harold. Harold sits at his bedside, John's hand firmly clasped in his. If John objects, he has yet to make it known.

"Ms. DeBrett is safe," Harold says, to start with. A little bit of tension goes out of John's shoulders. It sends a sympathetic shiver of relief through Harold to see him eased. "You found her in time. It was an astounding show of skill, I must say."

John manages to roll his eyes without opening them, which is quite a feat. "It's my job."

"And you're extremely capable at it," Harold says, agreeably rolling with that line of conversation. John opens his mouth to say something, and Harold neatly silences him with a touch to John's jaw. "Don't interrupt, John, it's rude.

"What was I saying?" Harold strokes down to John's throat, noting with satisfaction the way John shudders at the touch, his eyes falling completely shut. "Oh, yes. Your skill is remarkable, even given your training and experience. Although, given those, your skill is not half so remarkable as your kindness and compassion."

John's eyes fly open at this. His face looks open, afraid: more so than he would have if Harold struck him. "Harold." The whisper is barely more than air.

"I won't say any more if it troubles you," Harold says. He keeps his hand on John, petting him softly, evenly.

After a few minutes, John's eyes slide shut once more. He lets out a shaky breath and abruptly relaxes under Harold's touch, head tilting a small way upwards in a wordless request for more.

Harold grants it. If John won't have him speak, he'll be quiet, but John can't stop him from thinking it, from feeling the depths of his admiration - no, the word is not sufficient. When Harold lets himself, he is _awed_ by John: his very existence showcases the strength and resilience of the human spirit.

And yet that is not all of it. Harold moves his fingers over John's warm skin, feels the pulse in his throat. He is so very grateful for John, not only at his best but at his worst: for his stubbornness and frankly terrifying instinct for violence, even for the way John shoves away praise like a half-starved mutt cringing from a hand offering food.

He waits for John to fall asleep before he allows himself two final indulgences, ones he knows John can't accept yet without the searing pain of plunging a frostbitten hand into hot water: a quiet, murmured, "Thank you," and a devoted kiss pressed to John's scarred knuckles.


End file.
